Blood, Sweat and Tiers

by Nancy Warren

  Finally back inside the tent and putting my ingredients away, I took in the bustle still going on. The crew were amazing. Between them all, each week they told the story of each bake from beginning to end, the ups and downs, and the judges’ reactions. They were capturing our personalities minute by minute, building up our story. And so far, we’d been pretty lucky with the weather. Only once had we had to stop for a heavy rain. All that water thundering on the calico roof of the tent had been a nightmare for Robbie and the other sound technicians. I watched as the gaffers checked the lights and electrics, and the drone operator prepared to take some aerial footage. I wondered if the earl would shoot the drone out of the sky and claim it was a magpie.

  Donald Friesen, the series producer, had told us that it was like an avalanche when the cameras start rolling. There was no stopping the process. “It’s more like a documentary,” he’d said before the show began filming, “freewheeling and flowing—we have to follow where the action is but without stepping on any of the bakers’ toes.” Now that I’d been doing this for a while, I knew what he meant. Often, a camera might be trained on you while you slipped your cake into the oven, when suddenly a disaster would be happening on the farthest bench and the crew would rush to catch it.

  I closed the door to the fridge, said a quick hello to the data wrangler, and waved at the crew members I was getting to know. I hoped everyone could feel how grateful I was for all their hard work. It was the crew who were making my dream come true minute by minute.

  Time had gotten away from me, and when I arrived back at the pub, Hamish and Florence were already tucking into dessert. I don’t know how those two managed to have a sweet tooth during filming. Florence caught my eye, gestured down at her cake, and sighed. “You’ve got to try this rum and walnut cake. It’s incredible. Darius recommended it, or I’d never have been able to face another bite of cake. It’s all I’ve eaten all week as I’ve been practicing.”

  I took the seat next to her and slipped my arm around her shoulders, squeezing her gently. “I know. But you’re going to be fantastic.”

  Hamish nodded. “You’re giving us a run for our money, that’s for sure.” He took a final bite of apple cake. “There’s a new cake and pastry chef in the kitchen. She’s a wizard.” Florence fed me a bite of her cake, and it was so good, I was relieved the magician in the kitchen wasn’t in the baking competition. I also realized I was famished. It was time to refuel and keep my strength up, as Elspeth always advised me to do.

  Darius, the gorgeous new barman, hovered by our table, sending hot glances Florence’s way. She sent some pretty hot ones back.

  Sorry, buddy, I thought, catching his eye and smiling, you’ll have to do with me for now. Darius whipped out his order pad and told me that the lunch special was hot smoked salmon quiche with a watercress salad.

  “Sold,” I said, smiling again. “And a side of fries?”

  “Save room for cake,” Florence reminded me. Oh, dear. Was I being greedy? But who could resist french fries? Especially with a pot of homemade aioli. Well, at least the earl and his shooting antics hadn’t put me off my food.

  Florence poured me a glass of sparkling water from the bottle on the table and I drank it down, still smarting from my run-in with the earl. Maybe Hamish would know about hunting laws, especially the ones the earl and his gamekeeper were bending to their personal whims.

  I related to Florence and Hamish what had happened on the way back from Susan’s farm, describing how Sly and Gateau (now both off doing their regular animal duties—herding for Sly, napping for Gateau) instinctively pounced on the earl as he tried to take down a hawk, throwing his aim.

  “He said that it’s within his rights to eliminate so-called vermin from his land,” I continued, “but surely that can’t extend to birds of prey?”

  As I spoke, I could feel the earlier indignation rise up through my chest, making my heart pound. How dare he try to take down such a majestic bird? What entitlement. What ignorance.

  “Poppy,” Florence said, “you’re turning the most terrific shade of pink. If only I could get my cheeks to flush that way naturally, I’d shave off a good fifteen minutes from my morning routine.”

  I giggled. Florence knew exactly how to dissipate a bad vibe, and I took a few deep breaths. But jokes aside, this was a serious matter. Benedict had suggested his father could go to jail for killing certain birds during mating season. I turned to Hamish. “Do you know what the law says about this?”

  Hamish nodded and placed his fork back on his plate. “Well, there’s something called the Wildlife and Countryside Act. It was formed in 1981 to protect animals, plants and certain habitats here in the UK. I know a bit about it from raising my Shetland ponies and trying to live as peacefully on my land as possible. It definitely protects all wild birds, so any species which lives in the wild, but it doesn’t extend to game birds, which are protected by the game act when it’s not hunting season.”

  I sat forward in my chair. “So a hawk should fall under that act, right?”

  “Yes. It’s one of the basic laws that no person should intentionally kill, injure, or remove any wild bird from their natural habitat.”

  I let out my breath and relaxed into my chair again. “But wait, aren’t ravens wild birds?”

  “Remember, landowners are allowed to shoot certain pest species, including ravens. It helps to regulate the natural cycle of wildlife, plus it keeps the grouse and pheasant plentiful for shooting season. But there’s not much we can do if the earl denies aiming for the hawk.”

  I felt irritated, but I was also an outsider. I couldn’t understand why the natural world would need our help to regulate itself, but I trusted Hamish, and if he said it was acceptable, then I wasn’t going to argue. Chatting with Susan about the farm had demonstrated how farmers needed to be tough and had a much more no-nonsense approach to life and death on the land than I knew how to stomach.

  I would have pressed the matter further, but Darius returned with my quiche. “And here are your fries,” he said, placing them next to my plate.

  “Efcharistó,” Florence said, throwing back her hair and showing off those perfect white teeth.

  She could speak Greek? I was impressed all over again.

  “Parakaló,” Darius replied, gazing soulfully at Florence.

  Er, this was my lunch. Could I get in a word of thanks, please?

  I thanked Darius, in English, and sliced into the quiche. It was warm and firm, the egg and salmon a perfect combination, and the pastry was flaky and buttery. The watercress was a great accompaniment to the rich quiche—peppery and crisp. So refreshing. I sighed with satisfaction and dipped a fry into the garlicky aioli.

  Florence asked Hamish more about his farm and how he looked after Shetland ponies. As he talked, I realized I wasn’t the only one spinning plates to be on this show. Not only did Hamish have all that land to look after, he also had a full-time job as a police officer and he baked. I had so much respect for how hard he worked.

  I looked around the pub to see if Eve was working. As usual, it was busy with lunch trade, most of the oak tables were filled with groups of laughing friends and families gathering to mark the end of the working week. I spotted Eve in the corner of the bar, pouring a pint of cider from the tap for a tall gentleman. I squinted. I knew the back of that head.

  I quickly polished off the rest of my lunch, trying not to scald the roof of my mouth scoffing hot fries, and then interrupted Hamish and Florence’s sibling-like back-and-forth to excuse myself for a moment. “I’m going to demand some answers,” I said and grabbed a last fry as I headed to the bar.

  I tapped the man on the shoulder. “Benedict,” I said, “I’d love to have a quick chat with you.”

  He turned slowly and greeted me with an expression of wry amusement. He’d changed out of his worn flannel shirt and now had on a smart, button-down blue Oxford shirt with dark jeans. “Hello again, Poppy,” he said, a small smile flickering at the corners of his l
ips.

  That hint of a smile made my blood boil. Was he laughing at me for saving a beautiful wild creature from his gun-crazed father? I decided to let him have it.

  “You know that your father almost broke the law today, right? He tried to shoot a beautiful hawk. He tried to gun it down mid-flight.”

  Benedict frowned, all hint of playfulness gone in a flash. “I was there, Poppy. And if my father says he wasn’t aiming at the hawk, then I believe him. What you’re accusing him of is a very serious matter. As serious as falsely accusing someone of breaking the law. You may have been quite the detective around these parts the last few weeks, but even you should know that you need evidence to make such an accusation.”

  I swallowed. Benedict could be very imposing when he wanted, switching to a haughty, superior tone in a flash. But I knew what I’d seen. I had to stick to my convictions and maybe change tack a little.

  In a softer voice, I said, “I was there, Benedict. I saw him aim at that hawk. It was why Gateau and Sly ambushed him.”

  He raised one brow, and I noticed a smudge of dirt, probably soil, on the left side of his forehead. “Gateau and Sly?”

  Despite myself, I lost some of my righteous indignation. “My cat and Susan Bentley’s border collie.”

  He smiled again, his stern face softening. “It’s quite an adorable sight, you walking around the village with a kitten and a herding dog.”

  I was still annoyed, but it was nice to know that I looked adorable and not like I’d lost my marbles. Adorable. I let my mind linger on the word for a moment.

  “But Poppy, listen. I understand your concern. But if my father denies he was aiming at a hawk and Arthur backs him up, what can I do? They’re within their rights to control vermin on the land.”

  I shook my head, recalling how Benedict had charged up the hill in his gardening gear, out of breath, worried that he’d heard a woman yelling. I couldn’t deny that his heart was in the right place.

  “I noticed you weren’t carrying a shotgun. Don’t you accompany your father on his hunting expeditions?”

  Benedict paused for a moment, seeming to weigh up his response. “It’s not really my thing.”

  “Don’t like shooting with your father?” And who could blame him?

  “To tell you the truth, I hate the idea of killing living beings.”

  At that, I instantly softened. They might have a striking physical resemblance, but Benedict and Lord Frome were nothing alike in spirit. “I’m glad.”

  “Well, it makes me odd man out around here. What can I do?” he continued. “It’s the way of the land around here. My father is simply adhering to tradition.”

  Before I could respond, Susan came into the pub and joined us at the bar. She told me that she was meeting Reginald for a spot of lunch, as she put it. I still wasn’t used to many funny British sayings. Benedict took this as his cue to escape, and after bidding Susan a nice afternoon, nodded to me and left.

  Eve came over, leaned over the bar, and greeted Susan with a peck on the cheek. “What did you say to young Champney?” Eve asked, a teasing tone to her voice. “I’ve never seen a man leave a pub so quickly.” She tossed her long, gray braid over one shoulder and chuckled.

  Thanks, Eve. Way to make me feel like a man-repeller.

  “I think confronting him about his dad’s hunting habit sent him over the edge,” I confessed.

  I told the two women the same story I’d just recounted to Florence and Hamish, except this time I could explain, in a low voice to two of my witch sisters, that Sly had probably followed me down the path because he sensed that I was in danger.

  At that, Susan beamed. “He’s such a good familiar. A heart of pure gold. But the earl has a heart of stone. What a monster.”

  Eve agreed, her kind, clear eyes misting over with anger. I went on to describe the majesty of the hawk, his graceful swoop through the clear blue skies. I knew my coven sisters would understand the beauty of the animal kingdom. “What’s funny is that I’m sure I’ve seen the same hawk three times now. He appeared last week, circling the Orangery before that fated wedding.” I bowed my head at the memory. “Does that sound crazy? I mean, how many hawks could there really be in this sleepy village? It was like he knew I was coming.”

  Eve looked reflective and smoothed down the tan apron tied around her waist. “It doesn’t sound crazy. It sounds like there’s a connection between you and the hawk. I don’t think it was coincidence that you appeared just as the earl spotted his next victim.”

  I sank onto the barstool. It was a relief to hear that Susan and Eve didn’t think I’d lost the plot, but why were the hawk and I connected? It didn’t make sense.

  Eve sensed my confusion. “It’s a full moon tonight, Poppy, remember? The coven will be gathering—we can put it to them. The power of the circle is much stronger than the power of a single witch.”

  What with preparing for this week’s competition, I had forgotten that a magic circle was meeting tonight. I nodded fiercely. “That’s a great idea.”

  “And perhaps we’ll try to both ruin the earl’s aim and protect that hawk,” Susan added. “Two birds, no stone,” she joked.

  “But do you have any ideas why I keep seeing the same hawk?” I asked.

  “It could be your spirit guide,” Eve replied.

  Susan nodded. “Also, think about what a hawk symbolizes. It’s associated with good luck, clarity, and rising above bad situations so you can see the big picture. It’s also a bird of war. That means you’re in a struggle right now, but you will prevail.”

  I did feel like I was in a struggle. It was a battle every week to do well enough in my baking to get to the next round, and then there was the struggle to find out more about my own history. I had begun my life here at Broomewode, and somehow I felt that my destiny was also here.

  I was determined to do everything I could to protect that hawk. Maybe it was only a symbol, but it was a powerful and personal one to me. I told them I’d be there that night for the magic circle.

  “Looks like Team Poppy has yet another member.”

  I spun round, and there was Gerry. For a split second, I toyed with the idea of telling my coven sisters about my special gift, but perhaps a magical hawk was enough for one day.

  I shot Gerry a subtle signal that I’d meet him upstairs. Then Reginald arrived and swept Susan off to a cozy corner, and Eve accompanied them with a bottle of wine. I did enjoy how those two indulged in a little lunchtime luxury.

  “That must be why I’m here, Pops,” Gerry said, puffing out his chest and looking very important. “I’m your spirit guide.”

  I slipped off the barstool, told Florence and Hamish I was going to do some recipe book reading, and gestured to Gerry to follow me back to my room. At least this time I was inviting Gerry upstairs, rather than finding him lounging on my bed when I arrived at the inn.

  I closed the door firmly behind me (no way was I going to get busted talking to thin air) and regarded Gerry.

  “My spirit guide?” I said, rolling my eyes. “How can you be my spirit guide? You haven’t even figured out how to be a proper spirit yet.”

  He pouted. “No need to be so mean, Pops. I’m working on some new tricks. In fact”—he began to levitate, feet lifting up from the floor and then pointing to the ceiling as he executed a perfect tumble turn—“watch this.”

  “Okay.” But before Gerry could try to wow me, a screechy meow signaled the entrance of Gateau as she scampered through the open window. She landed on my bed and hissed at Gerry.

  “Oh no, not you again,” Gerry said, staring down my sweet familiar and floating back down. “You’ve thrown my concentration completely.”

  “You two need to learn to get along,” I said. “But if you can’t show me your new trick now, I’ll show you mine. Here’s a little something I’ve been working on this week,” I said, in the rehearsed voice I used when the cameras were trained on me during the baking competition.

  I closed my
eyes and settled myself before opening them again and training them on the key to the door, which was still snug in the lock. I felt a huge energy surge rushing up from the balls of my feet and through my body.

  I pictured the key turning in the lock, and without being quite aware I was doing it, my wrist rotated and my fingers mimicked rotating a key.

  Earth, water, fire and air,

  Help me to get from here to there.

  Open this lock, let my wish be the key.

  As I will, so mote it be.

  My focus was absolute, and it didn’t waver until I heard the key turn in the lock. “Ta-da!” I said, pleased with myself. This was my first time achieving that spell with an audience other than Gateau.

  “Impressive,” Gerry said.

  Then I turned it back again, very satisfied when I heard the click of the lock.

  I grinned and opened my eyes. “I can lock and unlock doors now. How neat is that?”

  But Gerry had complimented me as much as he was going to. Arms folded across his chest, he said, “Well, I can go right through a door.” And that’s exactly what he did.

  Chapter 5

  I sat at my window and watched night fall, the sun slowly sinking into the horizon, yellow turning into orange into pink and finally disappearing. In its place, the moon rose, casting the rolling hills of Broomewode in a silver glow. A stack of recipe books sat beside me, abandoned, as I lost myself in thoughts about the hawk, my birth mom, and the little information I had about my birth dad. Gateau napped on my feet, and I stroked her soft, black fur, her gentle purrs a soothing accompaniment to my musings.

  The minute the sky turned the blue-black of true night, I gently extricated myself from my position as Gateau’s pillow, buttoned a chunky cardigan over my shirt and slipped on my sneakers. I’d wound my hair into a high bun earlier, and as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I deliberated about whether to add a pair of hoops to my ensemble before chastising myself. Florence’s fashionista voice had clearly wormed its way into my psyche. It’s a magic circle, not a fashion show, Pops.